


my sun, my moon, and all my stars

by bishops (emeries)



Series: emmorie one shots [1]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Lesbians being soft, mor is a lesbian and emerie is a lesbian and they are mates i dont make the rules, oh god this is fluffy and gross
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:00:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29980476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emeries/pseuds/bishops
Summary: "Emerie loves Mor beyond the love of the stars for the sky, beyond the love of the moon for the sun, loves Mor beyond reason and doubt and the rest."
Relationships: Emerie/Morrigan (ACoTaR)
Series: emmorie one shots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2205240
Kudos: 13





	my sun, my moon, and all my stars

**Author's Note:**

> they have never interacted in canon and yet here we are

“You are extraordinary, did you know that?” 

“I did, but you’re more than welcome to tell me again.” 

Emerie laughs, leaning forwards to drop a berry into Mor’s waiting mouth and smiling when Mor kisses the juice from her fingertips. They’re lying in their enormous bed, sprawled across cream-coloured sheets in the late morning sunlight, a platter of fruit resting between them and the remains of Mor’s dress from the previous evening scattered across the floor in scraps of red and gold silk. If Emerie could do nothing for the rest of her life but this, she’d never have anything to complain about again. 

“Tell me again.” Mor nips at Emerie’s thumb, grinning up at her from where she’s stretched out in a particularly long beam of sunlight like a cat, and Emerie retrieves another berry and places it on Mor’s tongue. Mor is wearing nothing but the gold band around her left ring finger and a smile, the striking lines of her body outlined by glittering yellow sunlight, and Emerie admires her for a moment, her tanned skin and rich brown eyes, the curve of her hips and the swell of her breasts. Mor crushes the berry between her teeth, the sweet juice staining her lips red, and Emerie leans down to press a lazy kiss to her mouth. 

“You are miraculous, my love. You are incredible, and breathtaking, and captivating, and I am so grateful to be yours.” Emerie kisses Mor between each word, making Mor giggle against her lips, and straightens up, leaning back against the headboard with her wings stretched out as far as they go. Mor rolls over and props herself up on an elbow, kissing the side of Emerie’s toned calf, and rests her head on Emerie’s knee as she looks up at her. Six months they’ve been mated, properly, and Emerie has never been so happy in her life. She has a home, a woman who loves her, friends, everything she’s ever wanted. After winning the Blood Rite, she’d been properly initiated as an Illyrian warrior, no matter how reluctant most of the males were to allow a female to join their ranks; earned four purple Siphons, and was tattooed from fingertip to shoulder with the same blood-blessed ink male warriors were marked with. If her father could see her now. 

“You know, Cassian told me about a marriage rite the Illyrians perform.” Mor says, her soft gold curls spread across the sheets as she takes Emerie’s hand in her own. Mor’s hands are gentle and lovely, her nails buffed neatly and her fingers long, and she traces the tattoos on Emerie’s hand with the edge of one nail, mapping the swirls of black ink that stand stark against scarred brown skin. Emerie’s heart sinks so far in her chest she’s surprised it doesn’t fall out of her, because there’s only one rite that Cassian could be referring to, and it’s not a nice one. 

“Did he?” Emerie keeps her voice neutral, brushing a lock of Mor’s silken hair off her face with her free hand. Fucking Cassian. Emerie is going to need a word with him later. Mor kisses her knuckles softly, her mouth warm and gentle, the smell of citrus and cinnamon drifting over her, and then the inside of her wrist, pressing her lips to the thick scar running down the length of Emerie’s forearm. The wound is only a year old, deep pink and raised, a constant reminder of the agonizing climb up Ramiel, and Mor presses another kiss to the scar, her tongue flicking over the puckered skin. 

“He told me that Illyrian married couples make bargains.” Mor kisses further up Emerie’s forearm, her lips a perfect pink against brown skin and black tattoos, and Emerie shudders slightly at the touch, goosebumps cropping up along her stomach and back and her wings shifting. The bargain was one sworn at the midnight ceremony, in front of the entire war-camp, when the moon reached its peak in the sky, it was deeply archaic and heavily tipped in favour of the male, and it was one of the things that kept her mother from fleeing her father. “Is it true?” 

“It is.” Emerie confirms, smoothing more hair away from Mor’s perfect face. Mor pushes herself up, sitting beside Emerie’s muscled thighs and draping her calves across Emerie’s lap, warm and soft and wonderful. Emerie has known no one’s touch but Mor’s, has no interest in anyone’s touch but Mor’s, and when Mor smiles at her she feels as though she’s gazing into the sun. Mor is her mate, her lover, her everything, the very air that she breathes and the heart that beats in her chest, and knowing Mor feels the same makes her so happy she has no idea how to put it into words. 

“What is the bargain?” Mor says lightly, as though it’s nothing but a passing curiosity, and Emerie sees right through it. Emerie has always been able to see right through Mor, been able to tell truth from lies when they emerged from Mor’s lips, and right now is no exception. Emerie huffs half a sigh, taking both of Mor’s hands in her own, and kisses each of her fingertips slowly. She can taste herself on Mor’s fingers, salty and sharp, from the slow, lazy lovemaking they’d enjoyed after waking up this morning, and she knows her own fingers taste of Mor, and it brings half a smile to her lips. 

“It’s not important.” Emerie leans over and picks a berry off the tray, chewing slowly and savouring the sweet juice. Mor looks at her, brown eyes narrowed, and Emerie knows she’s going to be forced to tell her either way. She doesn’t want to, though, because that Cauldron-damned bargain had been the death of her mother, but Mor has never been one to let things go, and most of the time Emerie adores that about her. Most of the time. Not right now, that’s for sure. 

“It’s important to me.” Mor squeezes Emerie’s hands lightly, her legs still draped over Emerie’s lap, and Emerie squeezes back twice. They’re always touching now, hands or legs or shoulders or lips, Mor settles herself in Emerie’s lap during meals and Emerie rests one hand on the small of Mor’s back during parties, and they’ve developed an unspoken code in these glorious six months, the tapping of fingers and brush of elbows or nudge of hips, checking in, reassuring, all of it. Two hand squeezes means I love you, and Emerie does, loves Mor beyond the love of the stars for the sky, beyond the love of the moon for the sun, loves Mor beyond reason and doubt and the rest. “I have an Illyrian mate now, my light. I want to hear about the traditions.” 

“What if the traditions are outdated and awful?” Emerie draws a heart on Mor’s palm, a smile turning her mate’s perfect pink lips up at the corners, and Mor tucks a bit of hair away from Emerie’s face, tugging lightly at the raven-coloured strand before she rubs the rounded shell of Emerie’s ear with her thumb. Mor’s ears are pointed, decidedly High Fae, and sometimes it pains Emerie to see them, the constant reminder that she’s lesser than her mate, that they’ll never be considered true equals. Mor is High Fae and Emerie is not even considered truly Fae, most believe Illyrians to be mindless grunts, violent warmongers and barbarians, and they aren’t entirely wrong. 

“I’d still like to hear.” Mor says softly, brushing more hair away from Emerie’s face, and Emerie shuts her eyes. She takes a deep breath, spreading her wings further, and when she opens her eyes, Mor is studying her intently, still holding her face in one perfect hand. Mor’s eyes are soft, a perfect rich brown flecked with gold, and Emerie smiles at her without realizing. She likes looking at Mor, at the flawless lines of her face, the faint freckles dusted across her nose like the first snow of winter and the curve of her full pink lips that practically beg to be kissed, and will be kissed, by Emerie and Emerie alone, for the length of their very long lives. 

“The male promises the female and their children will want for nothing. The female promises to defer to the male and to never take another lover.” 

Mor frowns. It was the reaction Emerie was anticipating, the reaction most give upon hearing this awful bargain, but it stings all the same. Emerie isn’t sure why, exactly, it sends a pang through her, Emerie has spent her entire life actively resisting the traditions and expectations set upon her by her culture, but it hurts, and Emerie hates that it hurts. For a moment Mor is silent, her perfect lips pressed into a tight line, and Emerie tastes sticky bile at the back of her throat. 

“Maybe it is outdated and awful.” Mor acquiesces, half a smile playing on her lips, and Emerie can’t help but smile back. It’s not her fault Mor is so infectious, that everything she does makes Emerie feel as though the sun has taken up residence in her heart, and Emerie lets Mor clasp her hand and press another kiss to her knuckles. “But I know that I will never take another lover, and I know that you will want for nothing.” 

“I wouldn’t blame you.” Emerie says, though it pains her to say it. Her father did the same to her mother, snuck around behind her back while her mother pretended not to notice, and though it would pain Emerie greatly if Mor took others into her bed, she would rather know than be blindsided. The idea of her mate with another makes Emerie feel ill, some animalistic part of her snarling at the thought, and Mor’s eyebrows lift sharply at Emerie’s words. “If you took another, I mean. I know that I’m not-” 

“Emerie.” Mor stops her, kissing her hand again, and Emerie can feel her cheeks flame red. Mor smiles softly, so lovely it hurts, and draws her closer, tracing the leathery edge of one of Emerie’s wings. Damaged as they are, they still have feeling, and Emerie shiveres at the touch, her stomach tightening as Mor reaches the small silver talon at the tip and drags her thumb along the sharp point. “Darling. Dearest. My moon and stars. You are all I ever wanted and all I’ll ever need. I love you. You are beautiful and smart and fierce and lovely and loving you is the only thing I ever want to do. I want no one else in my bed or in my heart for as long as I live.” 

Tears sting at Emerie’s eyes, burning hot, and she kisses Mor before a proper sob escapes her lips, fitting their lips together neatly and resting her forehead against Mor’s once they break their kiss. Mor’s skin is warm and soft, her intoxicating scent of citrus and cinnamon wafting over Emerie, and Mor pulls away, cupping Emerie’s face in both hands and kissing the bridge of her nose. 

“A bargain, then. One for us.” Mor kisses Emerie’s forehead, softly, and Emerie rests both hands on Mor’s waist. The difference makes Emerie startle every time, Emerie’s skin is brown and scarred and tattooed; Mor’s is soft and tanned and unblemished, her fingers dotted with rings and her nails buffed into perfect ovals. She is perfect and Emerie is not and sometimes Emerie can’t believe that the Cauldron chose them for each other, that the Cauldron decided they’re equals and that they deserve each other, that a low-born crippled Illyrian female and the most beautiful High Fae in all the seven courts were fated and meant to be. “For our life together. For every glorious day that I have you by my side.” 

Emerie skims her hands up Mor’s sides slowly, making her shiver, and Mor smiles, the faintest hint of berry juice still staining her lips. A bargain. A new one. Emerie has never made a bargain before, never so much as left Windhaven before last year, but she trusts Mor. Mor will not hurt her. Mor will never hurt her and she will never hurt Mor and Emerie grips Mor’s hand, clasping it tight as Mor looks at her with a smile. 

“For as long as you are mine, I am yours.” Mor says, squeezing Emerie’s hand, and Emerie smiles back. That means forever. Emerie may not possess any of the magic of the High Fae, nothing beyond the purple Siphons resting on the table beside the bed, but immortality is a trait both she and Mor share, and they have forever ahead of them. A thousand years, ten thousand, until the world has fallen to ash and dust and ruin. 

“For as long as I am yours, you are mine.” Emerie answers, squeezing back, and a jolt runs through Emerie’s body, hot and sharp, magic sealing the bargain between them. Emerie rarely feels magic, not like this, and she shuts her eyes, warmth lancing down her spine and spreading through her stomach and arms and legs and leeching from her fingertips. It feels odd and strange and lovely, like the first time Mor had kissed her, and Mor kisses her again now, smiling against Emerie’s lips. 

The tattoo is a sun. Simple and beautiful, curving around Emerie’s hip in thick black ink, beautiful and perfect just like Mor. Mor’s own tattoo is the same, her golden skin practically making the sun glow, and Emerie wants to sink her teeth into the ink and make Mor giggle, wants to pin Mor to the bed and kiss her until they’re both breathless. Sometimes it feels as though their frenzy has never ended, the insatiable appetite for her mate rages just as furiously as it did when they were first mated, and Mor’s hunger is even more desperate than her own. 

“I love you.” Mor says, grinning, and Emerie practically pounces. They tumble across the sheets, end over end, until there’s no more bed left and they hit the floor in a tangle of limbs and wings and hair and a very loud thud. Mor laughs, so loudly Emerie’s heart warms, and Emerie laughs with her, because who would have thought? Who would have thought that a clipped female from Windhaven could have this life, this miraculous life, with the Night Court’s third-in-command, that she could have a family and a mate and a home?

“Do you really?” Emerie leans up and catches Mor’s bottom lip between her teeth, tugging just enough to make Mor laugh again, rich and smooth, her brown eyes dancing with mirth. Mor nods, her entire face bright with a smile, and Emerie kisses her properly, opening Mor’s lips with her tongue and drawing her close. Mor kisses her back without hesitation, golden hair hanging around them both like a sweet-smelling curtain, and right then and there, Emerie knows she’s home.

**Author's Note:**

> send me prompts or requests at emmories on tumblr


End file.
